Together we walk into the piano parlor.
“Have you been practicing your song for the—” Lynn’s sentence cuts off when she spots Nev next to me.
“Yeah,” I say.
Lynn drums her fingertips against the piano keys.
“I added a bridge,” I say, sitting beside her. “Can I play it for you?”
Lynn’s gaze bumps into Nev again. “Of course.” She removes her hand from the keys and runs it through her orange hair, crushing the frizzy flyaways around her face.
Nev shuffles over to the chaise and sits with her back straight and her knees wedged together.
After a beat, I close my eyes and play the song. As I hit the chorus, I open my eyes, wrench my shoulders back, and soften my jaw. My diaphragm expands as my voice rips up my throat. It vibrates everywhere: on my forehead, in my cheeks, against my palate. It even pulses inside my nostrils and underneath my nails.
When I finish, the room is so quiet my shoulder blades pinch together. “So?”
“It’s perfect,” Lynn whispers. “It’s honest-to-goodness perfect. If she—”
I widen my eyes, and she falters.
“It’s for my mother’s contest, isn’t it?” Nev’s quiet voice sounds as strident as acoustic feedback.
Neither Lynn nor I answer.
“If you don’t win, then Mom’s stupid.”
Lynn, who’s already not moving much, grows even stiller.
Nev flattens her hands so hard against the velour that her knuckles protrude and whiten like knobs of chalk. She stands and then walks over to the door, emotion gusting over the sliver of face that peeks out from behind her unkempt hair.
“You’re angry,” I say, right before she exits.
The smile she sends my way is tight. “I’m not.”
“Then why are you leaving?”
“Because”—she pushes a lock of hair behind her ear, then, as though realizing what she’s done, combs it right back in front of her face—“because Ten’s waiting.”
“You promise you aren’t mad?”
She nods, but it’s so choppy that it doesn’t comfort me. Maybe she’s just emotional.
Right before she leaves, I say, “Don’t tell Ten about the contest, okay?”
“I won’t. See you tomorrow, Angie.”
After the door shuts, I ask Lynn, “She was angry, wasn’t she?”
Lynn stares out the window at the stocky magnolia tree. “I don’t think she was mad, Angie. At least not at you. I think she’s struggling with her feelings for her mother, which will inherently cloud everything that involves Mona.” She sighs. “Even though Nev hasn’t mentioned her once to me, I think she wishes her mother would take notice of her. I think that’s why she sings. To get closer to her.” She fingers the piano keys. “If only she weren’t so talented.”
“Who?”
Without stopping the repeating melody, Lynn says, “Nev.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because… unless she gets as big as her mother, she’ll always feel like a failure. And attaining Mona Stone’s level of success, well, it’s not easy.”
